The Way War Was
by DeltaG
Summary: War ravages everyone, from the jungles of the Pacific, in Normandy, Italy, Africa, and back home. The jungles of the Pacific are becoming too much for many, and they fear them, fearing the crafty Japs in their trees. In Normandy the beach and Airborne attempt to secure it, but the beaches are taking casualties. How many will live to tell the tales of the jungle or of D-Day? WWIIfic
1. Operation Husky: Landing

**A/N: I give credit to Imjusthere61944, who made me realize there just weren't enough WWII fanfics out there, and his story inspired me to do this. At this point, all OC characters. R&R, if you don't like WWII fanfics, don't read, simple as that.**

**Imjusthere61944's story: ** s/8009443/1/Beyond_Normandy

**I do not own Call of Duty historical, modern, or whatever they're gonna do in the future. Characters of CoD games that show up here belong to Treyarch, InfinityWard, and anymore associates of Call of Duty respectively.**

_July 9, 1943_

_Operation Husky_

_Sicily_

_2200/10:00 PM_

The DUKQ boat swayed in the waves, the men inside held on to the sides or their seats, the swaying nearly knocking them over as they neared the beach.

"I hate boats..." One of the men commented, grasping the side of the boat as they went over another wave. His M1A1 Thompson was leaned against the side itself, and fell over.

"Well get the fuck over it, Williams." The man across from him replied, removing the cigarette from his mouth and blowing smoke at him. He had originally been in the Navy, and had gotten used tot he rocking there. He'd been transferred to Operation Husky for reasons he only knew as the fact he couldn't do shit with the guns on the boats, and he sure as hell couldn't steer or operate a boat.

The man was Fred Preston, age 25, with the rank of Staff Sergeant, he was the squad leader of the other four men in the DUKQ boat, and the most experienced. Having participated in Operation Torch in Africa, he knew what to expect, and was prepared this time.

Victor Williams, at the age of 18, was a private, and this would be his first time in combat.

Brian Gimmons, also age 18, at corporal, had originally trained with the Airborne Division, and knew that they would be of much value in this operation, much due to the way they could get behind enemy lines.

Harold Newman, his age at 21, was a private first class, and tended to be very aggressive, often firing the first and last shots in a conflict. He had also been a part of Operation Torch, and had been transferred from his squad to this one.

The final member of the squad, Christopher Neal, age 20, was the only one with a family back home. A wife, and a newborn son kept him going, and had kept him from getting shot many times in Operation Torch.

"Still, why the hell do we have to use boats? I mean, shit, planes are more stable than this thing." Williams retrieved his Thompson from the floor and slung it over his shoulder, hanging onto the side.

"I have an idea. Why don't you stop your fuckin' complaining and have a smoke with Preston?" Gimmons suggested, lifting his M1 Garand onto his shoulder to steady it.

A clatter made all of them jump, turning to see the M1919 Browning on the floor, Newman bending to pick it up.

"For God's sake, Newman, be careful with that thing! It's the only one we get, and if it stops working in the middle of combat, believe me, I will shoot you before the damn Italians get a chance." Preston said, outraged that the man had let the gun out of his hands for a moment. They could not afford for the gun to break now, this close to the beach.

"Sorry, sarge. You try carrying a gun that large in a boat that can't keep steady for a damn second." Newman replied sarcastically, getting a a smile for Williams and Neal.

"Are those mines?" Gimmons suddenly asked. In the dark he could see several floating objects in the water, smaller than the DUKQ boats, but large enough to cause damage.

"Damn right." The captain of the DUKQ boat replied. The boat itself was also a land vehicle, but doubled as amphibious assault vehicles when needed. It had an attached Browning as a gun on top, but was vulnerable from the back due to the ramp to let men out.

"Listen up! We'll hit the beach in about 30 seconds, but we'll take fire much before then. You all are going to get the hell out and I'll try my best to keep you covered with the Browning. Oren, you're gunning for them." The captain continued, steering slightly away from a mine.

"Why the hell do we have to do this in the dark?" Williams muttered.

"Would you rather be seen a mile off shore and be bombed by their planes? I didn't think so." Preston replied. The others smiled. Williams had a lot to learn. That was, if he didn't get shot first thing.

"10 seconds!" The captain yelled, and the hail of bullets began, coming from the direct front. In the darkness, they couldn't see, but assumed the other DUKQ boats were also receiving fire from the shore as well, as many of them had spread apart to prevent hitting mines when they'd been detected.

"Neal, you're going to have to make that Springfield accurate. We have limited ammo for that thing, and your shots had better count." Preston said as they were jostled, the change of the DUKQ as they went from water to land, switching from floating to driving.

The ramp was released and they exited the DUKQ boat quickly, all fire still focused on the boat and the boats around them as they ran for cover, mainly the rocks in front of them. They were rather large and prevented them from being seen as they crouched behind them.

"Newman, Williams, set that Browning up. Williams, watch his blind sides. Neal, Gimmons, let's clear these trenches." Preston ordered, motioning for them to move.

They ran for their lives, the fire now directed towards them and the other men streaming from their boats towards anywhere where there weren't bullets flying towards them.

They made it to the trenches miraculously unharmed, several of the men around them fell wounded or dead, and any survivors ran off with the remaining men in their squad to clear out another area.

"Okay, no point in staying silent now, let's just clear these Italians out." Preston smiled. He preferred being loud to being silent anyway. It came from the sounds of the naval guns, nearly deafening sometimes.

"Neal, save your ammo for now, use the Colt if you can." Preston began moving forward, the other two behind him as they began hearing the sounds of the Browning returning fire in the directions of the bunkers set up on higher ground.

The trench was already completely clear, most likely having fled from the mass of men heading this way. The three had decided to leave the two on the beach by themselves for now, after all the Browning could return fire to the bunkers, and the rocks blocked fire from most sides.

"I can't even fuckin' see." Gimmons commented as they searched for an exit to the trenches.

"Light the torches then." Neal suggested.

Gimmons flicked his lighter on and began lighting the torches that had been left behind, when he suddenly cried out.

A man had been hiding under a table set up in the trenches and had stabbed him in the foot as he walked by, then pulled him down to the ground, Gimmons quickly punching him in the right temple of his head, most likely cracking his skull, but at the least rendering him unconscious.

"Son of a bitch!" He yelled, clutching his foot,the knife still stuck in it.

"Damn. I never the Italians hid under tables." Preston said, trying to joke but failing. Gimmons just stared at him, so he pulled the knife out, not knowing what else to do.

"Can you walk?" Neal asked, turning around to train the Springfield to their backs. There could be more hiding out in the trenches, and he didn't want to suffer worse than Gimmons had.

"No I can't walk, I just had a knife stuck in my damn foot! What do you think?" Gimmons clutched his foot and applied pressure to the hole, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"We can't leave you like this." Preston said, reaching to grab the knife again.

He cut a bit of fabric from the unconscious Italian's uniform and wrapped it around the wound, tying it tightly to stop the bleeding hopefully.

Preston then slit the Italian's throat and stuck the knife in his mouth. He was usually a calm man, but seeing a man injured barely into the Operation had made him angry, and he saw that it was the only way to show his feelings rather than yelling for a while.

"The hell are they?" Williams' voice floated over to the three, and they all looked up, barely able to see him and Newman in the darkness.

"Here." Neal said, lowering his Springfield.

"What the hell happened?" Newman asked when he saw the makeshift bandage tied around Gimmons' foot.

"Italian stabbed him in the foot. We need someone to stay behind and look after him." Preston replied, helping Gimmons sit up against a sandbag.

"I'll stay." Williams offered, moving to the injured man and standing beside him.

"You sure?" Preston asked.

"Damn straight." The man replied, lifting his Thompson up to aim at the rest of the trenches.

"Let's go, then. Gimmons, you'll be fine. I promise." Preston then left the small area and turned left, immediately running into a door he hadn't noticed earlier. It was unlocked, so he opened it and he, Neal, and Newman continued through.

The room was empty as well, overturned tables and chairs around as they went through, and eventually found stairs that they proceeded down, darkness engulfing them.

"Shit, anyone got a light?" Newman asked.

Neal's lighter flickered on, illuminating a small hallway, whispering voices entering their ears.

"Looks like we get to kill something after all." Neal whispered, grinning. There was an evil look in his eye as he led them down the hall and to the right, the voices getting louder.

"Surprise, fuckers!" Newman yelled, peeking around the corner they finally got to and opening fire with the Browning not braced on anything. The recoil made him inaccurate, but he managed to steady it, aiming down the sights at any men he saw.

Preston and Neal joined in, overturning a table for cover as the other men in the room scrambled to escape the Browning.

Tables and chairs were overturned again, guns clattering to the floor and being hastily retrieved by hands that were nearly shot in the rain of bullets.

"Grenade!" Neal yelled, biting the pin off his 'Pineapple' grenade and throwing it over the table. It bounced off the floor twice and finally rolled next to an overturned table, exploding shrapnel into it, the two men behind it, the walls, and floor.

The Italians' fire stopped shortly after that, two men moving out from their cover to surrender.

They weren't after prisoners, so the men just shot them anyway, and examined the room.

"Nothing, it's worthless." Preston commented, kicking aside a gun he didn't know the name of.

"Let's keep moving..." He added a few seconds later, moving to the door at the other side of the room.

This was the way the Operation proceeded on the beaches of Sicily, clearing trenches, bunkers, and more underground bunkers to get to the mainland, where they would actually fight in buildings.


	2. The Raid on Makin Atoll

**A/N: First chapter in the Pacific Theater. R&R. Don't like WWII fics, don't read. Imjusthere61944 gets credit for constructive criticism and inspiring this WWII fanfic.**

_August 17, 1942_

_5:00/ 5:00 A.M._

_Makin Atoll_

_Pacific Theater_

"So the plan is changed?" One of the men in the small LCLR boats. It was like a raft, rubber, but not filled with air as it looked. It held three men, the boat to their left holding the other two in their squad.

"We're landing on a single beach now, or so they say. Yea, great way to not get found." The man steering muttered, his eyes searching for the beach they were now all going to land on at once.

"Great. Fuckin' great." The first man replied. He was Earl Norman, one of the men selected for the Makin Atoll raid as were the men around him. At age 23, he was the oldest in the squad, but had never wanted to do this raid. Odds were he'd be one of the few captured during it.

The man steering was Jack Crone, age 21, specialty in driving. He always drove when possible.

The silent man in the boat was lighting a cigarette, one thing he did when nervous. His name was George Herald, age 20. He was absentmindedly checking his M1 Garand as they neared the beach.

They would have to rely on one of the other squads for support, as they hadn't been the squad to get the flamethrower, and they couldn't burn their way through the jungle like environment, only follow paths or try to make their way through and avoid getting cut or worse from the environment.

All three of them then heard a whistling sound.

"The hell?" Herald looked up, and the boat next to them was struck by something, flipping over with the men falling into the water, already dead.

"FUCK!" Crone yelled, steering them at an angle that would get them out of the line of fire, but make them more noticeable.

Another explosive struck the exact same spot as the last one, spraying the men with the water again.

They neared the beach, explosions all around them as they steered the last few feet to it, explosions still hammering into the water behind him.

They abandoned the LCLR and ran across the sand, heading for the jungle in front of them, which would surely hide them.

In the jungle, it was quieter, the explosions and water splashing muffled, their comrades hurrying aboard the beach themselves, some soaked, some dry, most heading directly for the jungle as well.

"Well, that wasn't supposed to happen..." Norman muttered.

Crone loaded his M1897 Trench gun and looked around. He felt deeply unnerved when he saw their comrades had already left them behind, probably trying to clear the way ahead of them.

"Let's move." Crone said, pumping the gun to load it.

The three moved through the jungle ahead, maneuvering under vines and around the trees until they came to a statue in the middle of a path.

"The hell is that?" Herald asked, reaching out to touch it. A rope slightly to his left jerked, moving slightly upward, causing him to jerk back, aiming his M1 up at the tree holding the rope.

"Fuckin' Japanese traps." Norman muttered, moving slowly around the rope, keeping his weapon trained on the tree it was tied to.

The three continued along the path, soon reaching a river where two other men were kneeling next to, looking out at the path that continued on the other side.

"Don't move." Crone said to the kneeling figures. They had no idea whether they were American or Japanese, and they weren't going to go up to them until they knew.

"Relax, Mac." One of the men replied, putting his rifle on the ground and turning to look at them. In the moonlight that was still there, Crone could see the patch of the American flag, the green color of their uniforms around it.

"Alright, what company you from?" Norman stepped forward, his Thompson aimed at the ground now.

"We were supposed to be with A, but the damn explosions made us go in the wrong direction. This path is supposedly going to the opposite end of the airfield, but we don't know if there are traps laid on it." The other man replied, a BAR in his hands.

Just then a loud _crack_ filled the air, and the man who had set his rifle on the ground fell down, blood spurting from a hole in his stomach. He grasped for the rifle, but another _crack_ followed the first, and he lay still.

The other man instantly ducked down, landing behind a fallen tree in front of the river, more cracks filling the air. Either the snipers were very quick to reload, or there were many of them along this path.

The three others quickly ducked down behind the same tree. Not daring to poke their heads up to present a target.

"Dammit! Now what are we going to do?" Herald cursed, a piece of bark chipping above him.

"Obviously you weren't looking. The flashes were coming from the left side, about three, all in the same area. Japs don't know how to spread out." Norman was about to move to go through the jungle to get to them.

"You, what's your name?" Norman had a thought.

"Corporal Alan White, sir." The man with the BAR replied, ducking as low as he could as the snipers continued to shoot the fallen tree.

"White, you come with me. Herald, Crone, stay here and fire your weapons to draw their attention. We'll flank around and kill these bastards." Norman motioned for the Corporal to follow him, and they both ducked down, crawling across the ground to get to the cover of the jungle.

Crone and Herald fired their weapons blindly over the cover, receiving more fire in return.

White and Norman pushed through the jungle, vines and leaves in their way as they heard the cracks getting louder, the small muttering of voices accompanying them. They were speaking in their own tongue, probably mocking them as they hid from their shots.

When another crack filled the air, Norman took his chance and grabbed the one in front, with the best view. The place where the were was set up with two men on the ground and a third positioned in a tree, a platform holding him up.

White grabbed the second man on the ground, turning him over and shoving his knife into his throat, the blood spraying onto his arm sleeve and shirt, the man's wind pipe and throat cut open as well as the blood vessels.

Norman, however plunged his knife into the back of the man's neck, striking the man's jugular vein in doing so. He pulled the knife out to the side, completely rupturing his jugular, the blood covering his knife and sleeve.

The third man, still muttering in Japanese, must have heard the absence of voices and thought they'd died, as he began yelling, looking over the side of the platform.

A burst of bullets suddenly entered the man's head, and he dropped from the platform, landing next to White's kill with a crunch. White felt an evil satisfaction overtake him as the man he'd slit the throat of try to grab at him but fail.

Norman whistled, and Crone suddenly popped his head over the cover, and whistled back.

Norman also felt the evil satisfaction of killing the men who'd tried to kill them, but he was slightly sickened by it. He'd always been taught that killing a man was wrong, but he couldn't fight it now, he had to help win this war.

"Have fun?" Herald asked when he and Crone made their way over to the other two.

"Hell yeah. Didn't you know I used to cut throats back in America?" White tried to joke.

Norman was sickened even more that the man would even joke about that. Sure, Pearl harbor had struck many men with patriotism, and hate for the Japanese, but he still retained that killing was wrong, and he would never change his thoughts of it.

"Let's just go." Norman ordered, moving along the path. This was most likely the only set up they had, and they'd have to move fast to catch up with the rest of the men.

They came along several abandoned barrels as they neared a gate to the airfield, and examined them. They all appeared to hold gasoline or another flammable substance, and were unguarded.

Herald examined them while the other three looked at the gate. It was locked obviously, with barbed wire at the top, the fence part of it stretching in both directions.

"Looks like we'll just have to shoot it off." Crone finally said, aiming the Trench gun at the lock.

"Or we could blow it off." Herald suggested, rolling one of the barrels towards the gate.

"Too much noise, it would be better to blow the lock off." Norman stopped it right there. He had another idea for the barrel.

Crone shot the lock and pumped the trench gun in case it was still attached. The gun had done its job, the lock was on the ground, and the gate was able to be opened.

"Alright, Herald and White, carry the barrel. I've got a better idea." Norman ordered, shoving the gate open.

The men followed in an order; Crone in front, Norman in the middle, the other two carrying the barrel behind them. The path wasn't very long and they soon found themselves creeping down a runway, the airfield itself very quiet.

"Something's not right... The explosions were mortars, so they had to know we're here..." Herald muttered, his eyes darting, examining the area around him.

"Alright, put the barrel down. I want you all to listen to me good. When we blow this barrel, we are going to fucking run, got it? No heroics. The only heroes to me are the ones that survive this, not the ones who die pointlessly. No offense to your deceased friend, White." Norman explained, nodding at White. White nodded back and he and Herald set the barrel down.

Norman proceeded to slit the top of it open and back away, his eyes on the barrel next to a hangar door. The explosion would rip a hole in the wall and attract attention, giving them enough time to possibly get to the other side of the airfield and regroup with the other men.

Norman suddenly heard gunfire that sounded like it was coming from the other side of the airfield, where they were aiming to get to. Maybe that was why the area was so quiet, the large group of men had attracted more attention.

Norman shot the barrel anyway, and the group began running, their feet pounding on the runway, fear enveloping them all as the explosion ripped a hole in the hangar as it should, and a fire spread across it, opening the hole even larger.

They made it to near the edge of the airfield before they received fire, making their pace quicken as the bullets hit the ground near them.

Herald suddenly cried out, falling forward over a fallen tree, where the other three ducked behind. They now saw they were with the main force now, the men to their left drawing most of the fire now.

Herald had been hit in the left shoulder, his weapon dropped to the ground next to him as his shoulder bled onto his uniform, staining it.

"MEDIC!" Norman called, using his knife to cut off a piece of Herald's pant leg and pressing it to the wound, hoping to suppress the bleeding long enough for a medic to arrive.

The medic had heard their call and was there quickly, shoving Norman out of the way to get to Herald. The man ended up wrapping the man's shoulder up tightly, allowing blood flow, but limited movement.

A series of explosions suddenly filled the air, a column of smoke striking the air in the middle of the airfield, the Japanese fire momentarily stopping to look at the source of the explosion.

Many of them cried out and began moving towards the area, fearing more damage would happen if they did not stop it. The few left were shot before they could continue fire. White raked down a line of them before they could fire back, the evil satisfaction growing stronger, making him feel sick but satisfied again.

Norman did not fire, and left it to White and Crone. He felt sick hearing the Japs' cries as they died or were wounded and did not want to participate in the killing again.

"The job's done. Let's go." Norman ordered. The job was done, and the main force of men were already moving back towards the beach, where most of the LCLRs were waiting.

"There's more boats to our right, sir. I have a feeling the rest of my squad won't be coming back to take it." White stopped Norman in his tracks. Norman turned and went the direction White suggested, leaving him, Crone, Herald and the medic there.

Without speaking, the medic and Crone lifted Herald up and began moving after Norman, White watching their backs.

White was right, and they found Norman waiting on the beach, three LCLR boats waiting. Norman was starting the engine on one.

The medic and Crone set Herald down in a second boat and began starting that one's engine, the medic making sure the man's wound was stable.

"Let's get the fuck out of here..." Crone muttered mostly to himself as he got the engine started, the boat still sitting still.

White got into the boat Norman was occupying and sat at the engine and steering place, ready to leave this place. Norman nodded and looked over to Crone, who nodded at him.

The boats began moving slowly, and then sped up, moving quickly over the water, spraying it back at the island behind them as they headed out again.

Makin Atoll had succeeded, and they'd escaped with their lives, Herald only just. Norman was trying to figure things out with his conscious and the way the army made him kill. Crone and White were just concentrating on making sure they got back without the engines dying.

"And this is only the beginning..." Crone muttered.


	3. The Etna Line Breaks

**A/N: Once again, thanks to Imjusthere61944 for the criticism and support of this fic. The Battle of Troina commenced on the 31st of July and was a near week long battle, with the high ground of the hills changing hands often during this period of time. The Allies brought in artillery to pin down the defending Germans who were determined to hold the area for as long as possible. This ended in evacuation on August 5th in the middle of the night.**

_August 5th, 1943_

_1506/ 3:06 P.M._

_Operation Husky_

_The Battle of Troina, the Etna Line_

"I can't believe the Italians haven't fuckin' evacuated yet. Artillery would have made me run a while ago, even if I got shot while doing so." Williams remarked, sitting down beneath a window in the building they'd taken.

"It should be over soon, then we can be off to Europe and kill some Nazis..." Newman remarked, taking a bite out of a candy bar. The candy bars were standard issue in K Rations, which included other items that could sustain the men up to three days on one package.

"The only way they could win now would be to bring in a damn army of tanks, the way they've been being hammered." Neal looked out the window and across the street, where it was assumed an Italian group was preparing to charge their building. It was unlikely, but they were getting desperate not, and the Etna Line would be broken soon if they took this area.

"Regimental just radioed. They want us to push the line with another squad from Baker. We're to head across the apartments around the corner and secure them while Baker provides covering fire. Mortar fire will cover the surrounding buildings, trying to ensure that we get the job done." Preston walked into the room, a man with a radio behind him, the statement surprising them all. They'd just recently been told to hold their position and watch the streets.

"This is Connor Hill, he'll be coordinating mortar fire and the artillery while we're securing the apartments." Preston continued, grabbing a Thompson that was leaning against the wall.

Gimmons sighed and stood. The wound in his foot had caused him severe pain for a while, but now it was just a dull throbbing when it hurt at all. It hadn't managed to damage anything essential, though he'd been told he may have trouble moving some toes in the future. He'd been recommended for a Purple Heart that was still under evaluation. He didn't care, all he wanted was to get out of here and to somewhere without these damned K Rations.

A rumbling sound suddenly filled their ears and shook the two floor house they were already in. The men turned to each other and then Newman peered out the window, to see a tank rumbling up the road, a man sitting on top with binoculars, another with a radio.

"TANK!" He yelled, immediately throwing himself to the floor. A mechanical sound followed, and then a cloud of smoke blocked Preston's view.

He heard a scrabbling sound, and then saw two hands disappear from a newly created ledge at the other side of the room. Newman was laying on the floor, his left arm missing, blood spurting from it. He was laying still, but his chest was still rising and falling slowly.

"Motherfuckers!" Neal yelled, springing up and lobbing a grenade through the hole in the wall that bounced off the tank and exploded in the street, the shrapnel only striking one of the men on top. The man on the tank was struck by shrapnel in the feet and lower leg, but continued to position himself atop the tank, his radio taking no damage.

Preston ducked down and did a quick count. He and Hill were in the doorway, Neal was mumbling curses and loading his M1 Garand. Newman was still breathing, but only just. Gimmons was ducked behind a part of the wall still standing, looking over sadly at Newman. Williams was nowhere to be seen, so he must have been the one who fell from the ledge, probably into the floor below.

"Run!" He ordered, shoving Hill through the hall and towards the nearby stairs.

Neal grabbed for Newman, but another round from the tank knocked down the wall next to him, showering him with rubble and causing him to tumble over, a piece of rubble keeping him down.

Gimmons was torn. Newman was bleeding to death but still bleeding, and Neal was trapped under the rubble. The odds of Newman surviving were slim, so he helped Neal lift the rubble away, and then they both cast a weary look at Newman before another round from the tank knocked down the remaining wall, showering the man with rubble.

As Gimmons and Neal raced down the hall and down the stairs, they were suddenly overcome with grief. They'd barely gotten into the fight and Newman was already dead. The man had wanted to get to the Nazis and take them on. He'd been in Operation Torch back in Africa, and now the man was dead, right when they had been about to finish the conflict.

_It should be over soon..._ Some of Newman's last words echoed in Neal's head. It was over all too soon for him. Neal had a wife and child back home, but he knew Newman would have had more will than him to get through this.

When they reached the bottom floor, they found Williams laid up on a table, a medic wrapping his right foot, Preston and Hill ducked under windows, two other men at the doorway.

"Is he okay?" Neal asked, another tank round slamming into the building above them. The force caused some of the roof to collapse, falling next to the table Williams was on.

"Me might not be in a few seconds!" The medic yelled, ducking underneath the table to retrieve an M1 Garand underneath it.

"Newman is dead, sir!" Gimmons reported, crouching next to the window with Preston.

"Fuck! We're so close to getting through this damn line!" Preston cursed, and then popped his head up to see the tank fire a round into the higher story again, and then lower down to their level.

"Shit! Hill, where is that anti-tank crew!" Preston yelled, ducking down and pulling the pin on a grenade that he threw through the window. It landed on the top of the tank, next to one of the men on it and exploded, killing him instantly. The radio that began sparking told them it was the radio man, and that they were now out of communication.

"They must be desperate if they only send one tank..." One of the men muttered.

Hill looked up from the radio to Preston and said, "AT crew is coming up the road now, as well as two squads from Baker!"

One of the tank's rounds slammed into the building, this time knocking down the wall Preston, Hill, and Gimmons were ducked behind. They were now in the open, free for the MG on the tank to kill without trouble.

Gimmons and Neal had lost the will to fight by now. They had seen Newman die from this machine, and now they were convinced it was their turn. Neal slid across the floor, the round having hit the wall in front of him, leaving a trail of blood as he slid to a stop next to a bookshelf. He looked up, a hole in his left leg seeping blood. It was a small injury, but he couldn't get up and move, so he pushed himself against the wall into a sitting position, prepared to face the thing that would cause his death surely.

_I'm sorry Violet... I'm sorry... _He thought to himself, his lips moving silently in a prayer he quickly made up himself.

Another thump made him open his eyes, preparing to see darkness, but what he saw was two bodies flying in the air to the left of the tank, and another rocket slam into the side of the tank, causing it to begin smoking.

The hatch on the top opened to reveal the driver, his hands up, he slowly climbed out of the tank and into the middle of the street.

"Help me up, Preston..." He requested, holding his hand up to his sergeant. The sergeant took it and, against the medic's wishes, helped him hobble out into the street to where the gunner and driver were being harassed by the AT squad and Baker squads.

Neal punched the gunner in the face, and then drew his Colt sidearm and put a bullet in his left leg.

"You piece of shit..." He muttered, firing into his right leg.

"Do you know who you killed today?" He asked firing into the man's left arm.

"You killed a great man who deserves to be doing this right now." He fired into the gunner's right arm. Preston, Gimmons, Hill, the medic, and the others all watched in silence, possibly horror as well at the pain the man was suffering. The only one not watching was the driver, who thought he would be next. Williams was the most in awe, being supported by the medic.

"You killed a man who just wanted to get out alive." He fired into the man's stomach. The man was nearly dead, but could still hear and understand the American's anger.

"All I have to say to you, you sack of shit, is that if you killed my wife and child, I would be no more angrier. These men are my brothers, and in killing one of them, you invite the wrath of us all, especially me." He fired into the man's throat, and dropped the Colt, the gunner gurgling and gasping for air he could not get.

Neal collapsed on his hands and knees, his head hung. He didn't want to do this anymore, not one more second. Then he thought of his wife, child, and Newman. He'd keep going, only because of these thoughts, and the thoughts of keeping his comrades alive.

"No man with a gram of compassion would ever kill a man willingly." Gimmons broke the silence.

"Then why are you here?" Williams asked.

"All of us are here to keep this war from our homes and friends. The heroics that are talked about are usually the ones that get people killed. What keeps me going are you all, you are my brothers, and my wife and child. Williams, you'd better learn to keep some compassion, to keep your sanity here, or you'll be gone faster than Newman..." It hurt Neal to say that.

"Medic, help my brother here..." Preston said, grabbing Neal by the arms.

As the medic opened his stretcher and ordered a man from Baker to help him carry him back to the medical station, Preston said solemnly, "We need more men like him..."


	4. Banzai Charge at Tarawa

**A/N: Imjusthere61944, thanks once again for the views on the story, the thoughts on the chapters, and the interest in the story. The Battle of Tarawa went from 20-23 of November, 1943. It was the first battle of the Pacific Theater where the Japanese defending the island expected an attack and struck back hard. On the 23rd, a banzai attack struck the front lines, and artillery was sued to push them back. The attack consisted of 400 Japanese.**

_November 23, 1943_

_Tarawa_

_The Battle of Tarawa_

_0354/3:54 A.M._

"Can we just get off this godforsaken island already?" White complained, looking up over the trenches. Three days earlier they had landed on the island, taking more casualties than expected. The Japs were waiting this time, and they knew what they were up against.

Herald fingering the purple heart he had pinned to his left side, right over his heart. The medal hadn't consoled him, it only displayed that he was one of the few wounded just enough to get a medal but still be able to walk out into the fire, still able to fire a rifle, still able to lose a limb.

Norman was trying to hold himself together. He couldn't understand why the army made him kill, but his conscious and his religion told him not to. He was on the verge of becoming an atheist and he knew it. For him, it was either his religion, or his sanity at that moment.

The others knew there was something going on in Norman's head, as well as White's. They knew White enjoyed the adrenaline, the killing, the satisfaction or triumphing over someone who would have killed you just as fast. They were more worried for Norman, as he looked about to lose his mind at any moment. Herald had tried to comfort him once after he'd been forced to kill a man about to pump him full of bullets, but it did nothing to help.

Crone and Herald looked at each other and shook their heads. They could only count on each other now, Norman and White were out of it.

The final man in the trench was Richard Tile, a replacement that was the medic. He did not yet sense the unease between the men around him, and that was the reason herald and Crone left him out of the people they could count on.

"Soon... soon..." Norman muttered, checking his M1 Garand.

"Soon what?" Crone asked. He looked up over the edge of the trench. He thought he could see a movement in the shadows, but it was probably just his eyes playing tricks on him in the dark.

"We'll get out of here..." Norman muttered again, burying his head between his hands. It was useless to talk to him now, he was having deep mental problems and the others knew that. Every time Norman went into combat, he did what he had to do, but when outside he was like this, trying to figure out what he was doing, and why he had to.

Crone checked his watch. 3:59 A.M. They didn't yet know the plans for the day, but they assumed even they'd have to go along, even if their tiredness made them less effective.

Suddenly, Herald looked up over the edge of the trench, and this time there was a line of men standing there, bayonets fixed to their rifles, their feet pounding on the ground.

All along the line, Herald yelling with them, the call went out, "BANZAI ATTACK!"

Norman looked up instantly, his M1's bayonet fixed as the sound of the feet got nearer. A static sound could be heard along the trench, the radioman attempting to raise someone in the rear, possibly the artillery.

"Heads up!" Crone yelled, pumping his Trench gun. His two blasts, the front man fell, the man behind him jumping nimbly over him, and lunging towards Crone.

Crone fell over, the bayonet hovering over his face before the Jap suddenly fell over, the rifle with the bayonet falling to the side with him. He turned his head to see Herald holding a smoking Colt. That moment another man reached the line and lunged for him, catching the bayonet in his left arm, right under his elbow.

Herald let out a cry as the Jap fell from a bullet that White fired into his shoulder. White quickly fired again, killing the man instantly. The bullet entered straight through his forehead, a sure kill.

Norman lunged forward suddenly, catching another Jap in the stomach as he was about to dive into the trenches. The Jap cried out and fell forward, plunging the bayonet deeper into his stomach. He did not move, so Norman removed the bayonet from his stomach and lunged again, catching another man in the upepr chest, right below the heart.

Crone pulled himself up, just as he heard a whistling noise.

_Oh, fuck. I came this far just to die from a damn artillery strike..._ He looked to the sky, intending to watch the object of his death kill him, but instead saw a shell land in the banzai charge's ranks, sending men flying in all directions, their comrades continuing to charge.

"GET THE FUCK DOWN!" Someone along the line called, as the artillery continued to rain down, all over the area, some landing within 75mm of the trenches.

Crone ducked down, Herald beside him, Norman clutching his head between his hands again, out of fear or thoughts Crone did not know. White was still standing at the trench's side, firing out at the men.

_One day, this man is going to get me killed..._ Crone thought. He considered for a moment stabbing the man, but decided against it. The line was full of men looking down the trench, looking to see who'd been killed in the charge, and one of them would surely see him do it. He would also probably end up for a life in prison or execution, as that would be treason.

The situation was still the same: either White would have to calm his bloodlust or get out of this squad. Herald was having the same thoughts, but was more focused on the hole in his arm. At this rate, he'd be the only one in the Pacific with the number of Purple Hearts he would be getting. By his calculations, he'd have around 4-6 Purple Hearts if he was wounded on every island and survived. He didn't like the thought, but they would say something about him. They would either say he would be insane enough to get shot that many times, or one of the hardest S.O.B.s of the Pacific.

Herald smiled, making Crone think he was losing his mind as well, but then Herald nodded, reversing his thoughts.

Crone looked to White, who was still firing like a madman towards the Japs, clip after clip exiting his M1, even though the artillery had near finished them off.

White then had a surprised look on his face, and collapsed on the ground, a moment later, one of the few remaining banzai attackers landed on him, his bayonet plunging into White's chest, a spurt of blood coming up. White lifted his hand try and stop the man, but he didn't have the strength, his arm dropping back to the ground.

Herald shot, the bullet hitting the banzai attacker in the top of the head, as he was looking down at White. He dropped over, the bayoneted rifle still standing straight up in White's chest as he reached up again, blood staining his shirt.

Crone crawled over to him and shakily removed the bayonet, then pressed his hands down on the hole to try and stop the bleeding. White smiled and a glazed look took over his eyes, as he said the last thing Crone would ever hear from him, and the thing he would always remember.

"Those bastards... They got me, but... They'll never get you, Crone... You're too good of a man..." With that his head dropped backwards onto the ground, his arms falling beside him. Crone removed his hands from his chest, not even bothering to call for a medic.

He was sickened by the thought that he'd considered stabbing the man earlier. It was ironic that he was killed moments later by one of the remaining banzai attackers who knew they would die by rushing out here in a desperate last attack.

Crone ripped White's dog tags off the chain around his neck and held one in his hand. He placed the other in White;s mouth like he'd been trained to. One was for the records, the other for the men to identify the body. Crone didn't cry, no, he'd come to expect death in this war, and now he just stood, the artillery stopped as if for a moment of silence for White.

Norman was silent, but now he was staring at White's body. He looked to be trying to speak but no words came out. Crone turned to him and considered handing him the tag, but didn't.

"Crone..." Norman managed to say.

"Yeah?" Crone turned back.

"How can God tell me not to kill people but then the army tells me to kill these Japanese. I know they did wrong at Pearl Harbor, but I still can't see how God would allow this..." Norman had always been a very religious man, Crone knew. He'd always attended church as a child, teenager, and before he got into the war. His mind was torn and probably always would be now.

"I don't know. I just don't know." Crone replied turning to Herald.

Herald's bleeding had stopped, but his sleeve was stained with the blood that had spurted before he'd been able to put pressure on it. He smiled. If anyone would make it out, it would be Herald. The man may have been wounded twice, but the way things were now, he looked to be invincible. Able to be injured, but not able to die.

"Get yourself to an aid station, I'll cover things here." Crone said, motioning for Herald to go. He did, leaving Crone with Norman and White's body.

Two men arrived at that time. They'd been sent up the trench line to report where reinforcements were needed and to record the deaths of men. Crone handed over the dog tag that had been White's and sat down opposite Norman, looking at White's body.

He'd known that anyone could be wounded, killed, maimed, and worse in this war. Hell, Norman was having a psychological breakdown right across from him. That proved that no man was safe in this war, not the religious, rich, poor, or middle class.

Crone looked at Norman, who was, now, actually looking up from his hands. He then stood up and sat down next to Crone and looked at him.

"Crone, nothing matters anymore out here. Religion is gone against, men are dying, and these Japs were willing to die just to take some of us with them. We just need to get out alive." Norman spoke with a sigh.

Crone could tell he was still having problems in his mind, but he was attempting to put them on hold for now and focus on living through this. Crone nodded and looked to his left. There were two men racing towards them, different from the runners.

The replacements looked perfectly new, there equipment shined, their helmets looking as if they'd never seen battle. Their ammo pouches were filled up, and their clothes weren't combat worn.

_Oh, they have no idea what they're getting into..._ Crone thought, and shook his head.


	5. Psychological Wounds and DDay

**A/N: Thanks once more to Imjusthere61944, and his views on this. Feel free to review yourself, anyone else who is viewing this. **

_November 23, 1943_

_Tarawa_

_The Battle of Tarawa_

_0420/ 4:20 A.M._

Norman's hands shook in front of him. White's body had been taken off to the rear, as well as his tags. The man had a bloodlust that may have gotten them killed, but this war was just beginning in the Pacific. There were many more islands they'd have to clear, and them Japan itself. The men sent to replace him and Herald while he was wounded were chatting in low voices as they watched the front. Crone was sitting where White's body had been, obviously deep in thought.

"_What's your name?" Norman asked._

"_Corporal Alan White, sir." A sniper's gun cracked through the air, the man next to white going down in the sand, his hands scrambling for his rifle as another crack pierced the air, stopping his movements dead._

Norman shook his head. He did not want to remember those memories, of a man that would never come back. The man had a bloodlust, sure, but he was a good kid...

"_Have fun?" Herald asked White._

"_Hell yeah. Didn't you know I sued to cut throats back in America?" White replied, that sick evil satisfaction in his eye._

"No..." Norman muttered. The memories didn't stop, and White kept coming back to him, always with that 'let's get 'em' attitude, ready to kill something, always the first one to shoot.

"_MEDIC!" Norman called out, cutting into Herald's pants leg to get to the wound. White's BAR pierced the rifle fire, the cries of some Japanese as they went down. White hadn't yelled anything that time, but that same look was in his eye._

He tried closing his eyes, but they were still there. White, him, Herald, Crone... They wouldn't stop coming back.

"_WHITE, YOU DUMBASS GET THE FUCK DOWN!" Norman yelled, pulling the man down as their allies' mortar rounds raked the ground ahead of them, stopping the charging men but leaving the ones who were taking cover in buildings alive, firing at them from their positions._

The first day, that had happened. The landing had led to buildings where many men had charged out from, at the line of the men that had landed with them. The mortars had taken care of them, but White had gotten a few too, that same look in his eye.

"_Trenches. This is not World War II, why the hell are we digging trenches?" White asked._

"_White, would you prefer to lay out there and get shot by snipers?" Crone had said back._

Norman finally just accepted the memories, White was in all of them. Sometimes Crone and Herald were too, but it was mainly White with him, or just White.

Crone was having problems as well. He'd thought about killing the man right before he'd been stabbed. This was making him feel guilty, even though he knew it was his fault. He shouldn't be having these thoughts and he knew it.

_This man is going to get me killed, Crone had thought._

Norman was also having problems, but had Crone thought about killing him? No. May not trusting him, but he'd never thought about killing him. Crone was suddenly scared that he would think of killing one man, and then a man behaving in a way of him he would spare.

_What the hell is wrong with me...? _Crone thought, looking over at Norman. He was obviously deep in thought as well.

_June 6, 1944._

_Normandy_

_Operation overlord (D-Day)_

_0800/8:00 A.M._

The LCVP went over another wave. Williams vomited over the side, his third time in that hour. They were approaching their target beach: Omaha Beach.

"Damn boats..." He muttered, pulling his head up from the side. Preston was looking over the front of the boat at the beach in front of them. Gimmons was sitting on a box at the back of the boat, a cigarette in his mouth.

Neal was at the front with Preston. He'd been disqualified from the Purple Heart in Troina due to violation of the Geneva Code, but did not have a punishment. They'd realized that the worst possible punishment at this time was to put a man back on the front.

The battle cruisers flanking them on their left and right were massive, making their boat seem like a dwarf. They almost completely depended on those cruisers and battleships to destroy the artillery on the beaches, and to provide cover fire as they entered.

The 101st and 82nd Airborne divisions had parachuted in earlier that day, before sunlight had broken. Hopefully they had secured some strategic points to save them from the trouble.

"Incoming!" A voice shouted, an explosion landing in front of their boat, sending a spray of water at the occupants, making Neal and Preston flinch back, rubbing their eyes.

"FUCKIN' GERMAN ARTILLERY!" Preston yelled, rubbing his eyes harder. The salt burned, and his eyes were watering, but he still could barely see.

The cruisers and battleships began returning fire all over the beaches and hills around them, searching for the artillery pieces. Several of them were sealed in bunkers on the hill, but the battleships quickly took them down and resumed the search for the ones hidden.

"Landing in 30 seconds!" Preston yelled, ducking behind the landing ramp.

The battleships and cruisers continued pounding the beaches, the artillery still raining at them. A transport boat in front of them took a direct hit. It exploded, sending men flying, the sides and bottom of the boat burst open, water flooding the now empty boat. It soon sunk, but the men in Williams' boat felt uneasy, the artillery still firing near them.

"10 Seconds!" Preston yelled.

They reached the beach, artillery still landing around them and the other landing boats as they released the ramps.

"Dammit, the ramp is stuck!" Neal yelled, pushing against it to try and push it open. The ramp budged slightly, but did not slam into the sand in front of them. The other transports around them had released the ramps and were streaming up the beach. They were sitting ducks out here.

"Fuck this!" Gimmons yelled, kicking the mechanism that was supposed to lower the ramp. It budged more, but still did not go low enough. He then shot it with his M1, then kicked it again.

The ramp let out a sound of strain, and then slammed into the sand, allowing them to move. And move they did, the artillery now nearly on top of them.

Hill, the radioman, was the first one out and up the beach. As he dove for cover behind a large dune, a sniper's bullet hit him at an angle where it entered his left cheek, and came out the right, doing no damage other than a hole in both cheeks. He cried out in pain as his squad reached him. Preston took his radio and yelled into it, "Sniper-fire reported on Omaha beach!" the radio buzzed with activity, and it was unlikely that he was heard. He handed the radio back to Hill and looked over the dune.

A sniper's bullet ripped into his right shoulder as he brought his M1 up to fire. He dropped back, clutching it and trying to stop the bloodflow. Soon two other squads joined them, and the dune became very crowded as the sniper fire continued to pin them down.

One of the men from another squad held up his Springfield, and attempted to take a shot at the sniper. He missed, and another bullet hit him in his left arm, just above the hand. The sniper dropped down beside him as he clutched his arm.

Gimmons, who was trying to help Preston stop his bleeding, took the sniper and, with a yell of, "Take this you Nazi bastard!" Fired once at the sniper, missed, the fired again in rapid succession. The fire was not returned, so he hopped over the dune, where the other groups were being visibly destroyed by pillboxes on the hills that the battleships had missed.

"Shit!" Neal yelled, dropping down to reduce their chances of seeing him.

"Someone get on that damn radio and call in those damn battleships!" One of the men from another squad yelled, firing his M1 at the pillbox. It was ineffective, the bullets continuing to rain down on the men ahead of them.

Preston grabbed the radio from Hill once more, who was still trying to understand where he'd been hit.

"Request covering fire on Omaha Beach. Pillboxes pinning down advancement, repeat, pillboxes pinning down advancement at Omaha Beach." Preston said into it. This time he got a clear answer.

"Confirmed, pillboxes on Omaha Beach. Can you provide measurement of how far they are form the beach?" Preston did not know, so he handed the radio off to someone with binoculars, who relayed the information.

About thirty seconds later, explosions covered the area where the pillboxes were, destroying them, the men inside, and any equipment with them.

Preston attempted to continue on with his squad, but his shoulder did not permit him. He could move it just fine, but the pain was unbearable.

"Hill, get going... I'll be fine." He said, grinding his teeth from the pain of trying to get up using his arms. It caused his shoulder to burn in pain, and he quickly sat back down.

"Yes, sir. Medic, help my sergeant here!" Hill called before continuing on after Neal and Gimmons. Williams followed, the look in his eye expressing fear, adrenaline, and experience now. He'd never been so close to death before, twice in a row. He'd known if he looked up, the sniper would have shot him, and if they'd continued blindly, the pillboxes would have annihilated them. He was beginning to understand what Neal had told him back at Troina, nearly a year ago.

"Shermans!" Neal called as the two caught up with them. Off to their right a transport boat was offloading Sherman tanks, which drove onto the beach despite the still going artillery from the unknown piece.

The Shermans devastated the remaining pillboxes, putting rounds into them from their main guns. The Shermans were variants of their standard form, with plows on the front that could clear barbed wire, debris, and more from their fronts. The Shermans would be used to lead them through the beaches and onto the surrounding area.

"Now we can start..." Gimmons said, his eyes glowing at the sight of the Shermans.

**A/N: Once more, thanks to Imjusthere61944 for reviewing every chapter, for constructively criticizing, for compliments, and more insight. If you want to review, now is the time, because I'm going to be going into real depth about D-Day and the days after, as the Allies begin their offensive to France and towards Germany itself. The Pacific theater will not be forgotten either, and major battle will take place in them too.**

**- Regular wounds heal, psychological wounds last forever. DeltaG. **


	6. Reflections

**A/N: **Sorry for my recent absence, I've been looking around for more historical battles and some of the less known ones, and this one caught my eye. Kwajalein Atoll. Read on if you want. Thanks once more to Imjusthere61944 for comments, suggestions, reviews, and anything I neglected to add.

_January 31, 1944_

_Kwajalein Atoll, Marshall Islands, Jacob Islet (Real islet, no joke)_

_Marshall Islands Campaign_

_4th Marine Division_

_0200/2:00 A.M._

Herald was looking at the burned out buildings around them. The bombs earlier in the night had surely done this, and many of the defenders of the islet were dead now, only leaving light resistance if any at all.

Norman was calm for once and not fighting his sanity. It seemed he'd resolved it, but every time he killed someone, he would go back to his old routine oh burying his head in his hands for a bit.

Crone was speaking quietly with one of the replacements they'd picked up on Tarawa. His name was Hector Satchel, and was at the age of nineteen, nearing twenty. As far as he told them, his birthday would be in February, late in the month.

The other replacement was smoking, even though it threatened to give away their position. He was 22, and had been in another squad before now, but they had been killed in Tarawa. His name was Julian Rott.

Herald was now sporting a second purple heart to his first, and while he knew his third wound would get him a ticket home, he wasn't eager to be wounded. His first wounds could heal and had, but he feared his third wound would disable him, probably in walking or an arm.

"Put that smoke out, Rott." Crone said, batting away the smoke getting in his face.

"We're moving out, so everyone can it." Herald ordered. Norman was in higher authority than him, being a sergeant, but in his current state, Herald often took command at his rank of corporal.

The group moved from behind the rocks they were behind and moved through the burned and some still-smoking trees and structures. Several burned bodies of the Japanese were on the way as well as body parts of the ones directly hit.

Soon they came to more cover of jungle, and resumed their waiting. The islet was nearly clear now and with any luck they'd be out of here before first light and to another islet, or maybe the main atoll. The bombings had done so much damage it almost made no sense to Crone as to why they were even sent in.

"So, where've you guys been before here?" Satchel asked, sitting next to Crone again.

"Oh, we've been other places. Makin, Tarawa... Now here, where we've got nobody to fight and no fires other than burning areas on the islet." Crone replied, sitting down next to Satchel.

"How was Makin?" Satchel asked.

"Fuckin' terrible..." Crone replied, taking out his own cigarette pack and lighting one.

"_FUCK!" Crone yelled, wrenching the steering wheel out of the area of the explosions. The beach wasn't far away, but he wasn't going to risk ending up like the other boats._

"What happened?' Satchel asked, his eyes lit up in interest.

"It was... Different. A man from A company, we didn't even know his name, was sniped right in front of me..."

"_...traps laid on it." The man finished the sentence and a _crack_ filled the air, as he fell down, stretching out to reach for his weapon. Another shot fired, and he stopped moving, his arms falling beside him. White slid over to them, nearly knocking Crone over as fear overtook him._

"First time I ever killed a man..." Norman said suddenly, in a low voice.

_The evil satisfaction overtook him, the sniper's blood splashing onto his sleeves and onto his front. He was sickened, and dropped the man to the ground._

"I got shot..." Herald muttered lowly, absentmindedly touching his shoulder near where the bullet had hit.

_Fuck, he thought as the bullet entered his shoulder. He tripped and fell over a fallen tree as Norman dove over him, his knife cutting off a part of his pants leg. "MEDIC!" Norman called, wrapping it around the wound._

"Shoulder wasn't it?" Crone asked.

"Yep. That was also where we met White..." Herald smiled, and then it faded as he remembered the events of November.

"Yeah, I remember that..." Crone trailed off.

"_...Never get you, Crone..." White went limp, his arms falling to his sides. Crone fought back tears, pulling his hands from White's chest. It was useless to call a medic now, he was gone._

"Things have changed..." Herald said, touching his purple hearts again, and looking at Norman and Crone. They'd been through two hells together, but Norman was near insanity. Crone remained intact, but perhaps he was just trying to keep his sanity together.

_June 6, 1944_

_Normandy_

_Operation overlord (D-Day)_

_0830/8:30 A.M._

Neal, Preston, Williams, Gimmons, and Hill rested behind the rocks. They'd encountered a problem ahead and the Sherman dozers (Shermans with bulldozing capabilities) were working to move the debris so they could move ahead and link up with any Airborne units ahead.

Preston lit a cigarette and looked at the other four around him. Operation Husky had brought them together, and now D-Day might bring them apart. If they had charged blindly ahead like many had on the Beach, the pillbox would have destroyed them easily. The challenges ahead were linking up with any airborne units ahead, and then pushing on to Carentan and any other nearby towns or villages.

"Ah, so we've made it this far..." Neal said, sitting down next to Preston.

"I fear this may bring us apart though. I've been feeling as if my time is coming soon, and I must make a choice. To allow myself to accept what I think might happen or do what I must to continue on." Preston said solemnly, passing around his light for Hill and Gimmons to light their cigarettes.

"Remember the beach?" Gimmons asked, rubbing one of his feet through his shoe.

_The knife hurt like hell as Gimmons punched the Italian, rendering him unconscious. "Son of a bitch!" He exclaimed, clutching his foot._

"You got stabbed in the foot, if I remember." Neal smiled at the memory of the Italian being punished for daring to stab a soldier somewhere where he'd be able to recover.

"Remember when we cleared that entire room?" Preston asked, looking to Neal. It had only been himself, Neal, and Newman after Williams had stayed with Gimmons.

"_Grenade!" Neal yelled, a pineapple grenade soaring over their table and near the one on the other side of the room. It exploded, shrapnel flying out in all directions._

"Hell yeah." Neal replied, smiling at the memory.

"The tank in Troina..." Williams said solemnly. All of them remembered that day. The day Newman had died and the day Neal had declared them all brothers-in-arms after punishing the gunner for killing their dead squadmate.

_Neal and Gimmons cast a final weary look at Newman as he was showered with rubble, ending his suffering and his life._

"_...get out alive." Neal shot the gunner in the stomach, his anger uncontrollable now._

"Newman is in a better place now... Better than Sicily for sure." Neal commented, tipping his helmet over his eyes.

_Kwajalein Atoll_

"Let's go..." Herald ordered. The reflecting on his past had helped him a little, but he knew they had to finish this islet.

After moving through the island for several minutes they began to hear voices in a foreign language, followed by gunshots. It appeared that there were some Japanese still alive, probably harassing another squad.

"Let's drop some Japs." Rott commented eagerly. He checked the safety on his M1 and then crept toward their voices.

"Let's take a look." Crone volunteered, moving after Rott.

After moving slightly through some burned jungle, they saw the source of the fire. The Japanese were facing to their right and firing at some other burned jungle, some light fire coming back. The Japanese were not worried at all and appeared to be fixing bayonets for a banzai charge on the other squad.

"Rott and Satchel, take the two on the left, Norman take the one in front, Crone, you and I will take the ones watching their backs." Herald ordered, aiming his Thompson at the men facing the back.

"Fire at will!" He yelled the command and pulled the trigger, the fully-automatic weapon spraying the man across his side. He fell, and another spray of bullets entered his chest before Herald had to reload. Crone's target also fell from two shots to the head.

Norman's target dropped to his knees and clutched his leg before he dropped to his side, blood pouring from his upper chest.

The two men remaining on the left fell one after the other, both leaking blood from the lower chest and stomach.

"Great job, men." Herald commented, hauling himself up to the height of the area the Japs were occupying. Another squad walked out of the burned jungle to their right and quickly hurried off to the left with a "Thanks!" from the man in front.

The area held several boxes of ammunition for their weapons as well as what looked to be a dismantled light machine gun. Several Arisakas and Type 100s were lying next to the boxes of ammo, already loaded. It looked as if they could have kept up fire on the squad all night if they didn't banzai charge them.

"Well, what a way to leave. Lots of ammo, guns, and you get outsmarted by a chance encounter." Crone commented, kicking a box of ammo to the side. It spilled over and the ammo clattered onto the ground and rolled.

**A/N: READ! READ! READ! **If you enjoy this story, please visit my profile to vote on a current poll I have going on. The poll asks if you would like to see another fic like this, but following the an Airborne division through the European theater. Every vote counts, and it would help to know if people other than Imjusthere61944 and beastlynerd were viewing this.

-DeltaG

-Regular wounds heal, Psychological wounds last forever.


	7. I'm Tired of the Jungle

**A/N: I know it took me a while to update this, and I apologize. I've been occupied with schoolwork and such the past week or so, and I finally found the time to write this. Best wishes to Imjusthere61944, who is writing another WWII fanfic, that I suggest you check out if you like this one. Thanks to Imjusthere61844, and beastlynerd for reviews.**

_February 1, 1944_

_Kwajalein Atoll, Marhsall Islands, Roi-Namur_

_Marshall Islands Campaign_

_4th Marine Division_

_1341/1:41 PM_

Crone was shaking. In his hands were the dog-tags of Norman, covered in dirt and gunpowder, the name and serial number almost unreadable.

Crone's left hand was free, the one holding the dog-tags, but his legs and right arm were trapped underneath several pounds of rubble, and he could feel his chest constricting, tightening as he looked around frantically. He had no idea where Norman's tags had come from, and he thought the worst under the circumstances.

"Fuck..." He heard a voice to his left. Satchel was clutching his left leg, a large amount of blood seeping from it, as well as a cut just below his ear.

Crone tried to call out, but his voice was gone, and he reached out with the hand holding the tags, grasping towards Satchel, who was still concentrating on his leg.

"S-sa..." He managed to mumble, his hand overturning, and the tags dropping into the dirt next to him. Satchel looked up for a moment, and saw Crone struggling, and lugged himself over to the injured Marine, his leg trailing blood behind him.

"We're fucked up bad, eh?" Satchel managed to say, trying to lift up a little bit of the stone rubble off of Crone. It shifted slightly, but enough for Crone to be able to get a little breath in.

"Damn that demo team..." Crone mumbled, once more grasping Norman's tags. The steel was cold on his hands, but that gave him hope that he could still feel, still tell temperatures.

"I just had a thought, Satch..." Crone mumbled after a few moments of sitting there silently, as more men began to regain consciousness or realize their comrades were still unable to help anyone else.

"Yeah?" Satchel was cutting off a strip of his left arm sleeve to wrap around his leg where it had been injured, and looked at Crone.

"If Herald's still alive... That lucky bastard gets a ticket out." Crone smiled, and then a warm feeling went down in a line on the left side of his face. He reached up to touch it, and his finger came away with a little bit of blood visible through the dirt and grime that had covered it in the commotion.

"Well, that's great for him." Satchel wrapped the cloth across his wound and then began attending to the cut below his ear, where blood was seeping down his neck, staining the collar of his uniform.

A low static sound began overtaking Crone's hearing, and he finally turned around and looked to see a man speaking softly into a radio a few feet away, trying to raise a signal.

"I can't feel my damn legs..." Crone mumbled, realizing he could no longer feel his legs under the rubble, and began panicking. The circulation of his blood would be blocked by the rubble, and... What would that cause?

"I NEED SOME HELP HERE!" He suddenly yelled out, catching both Satchel's and the radio operator's attention. He dropped the radio and both men began trying to shift the rubble off of him, working from top down. Two more mobile and uninjured marines joined them and helped, though many more men needed help.

After the rubble was off, Crone began trying to get feeling back into his legs, by shaking them around and trying to stand. He fell more than once, and soon bruises began to build up all over his arms, which broke most of his falls.

_Same area_

_All other things same._

Herald was in pain. Pain like no other. Shrapnel from the explosion had pierced both of his legs, his left cheek, and the side of his throat, just above his collar bone. He was lucky to still be breathing, let alone able to feel pain.

He wasn't covered, but he didn't dare move for fear of the shrapnel sinking into his windpipe, and sealing his fate. In his hand was the last thing he had before the explosion, which was his knife. He suddenly realized he was gripping the knife so hard his fist was turning an unsettling blue color, and it was beginning to hurt, just like everywhere else.

"Ah... Medic..." Herald muttered, not aware of all the other moans for help, the cries of pain, the dying breaths of the men who were even worse than him.

"Hang on buddy... You've got a ticket out of here, you lucky bastard." A man was suddenly crouching over him, and then he felt himself being lifted, the shrapnel jutting slightly. Herald panicked, and began to grab for it, but another man seized his arms and pinned them to his sides, keeping him from touching his wounds.

"Pain... Can't take... the pain!" Herald yelled, his vision fading in the corners, and slowly spreading.

"SHIT! Get this man some fuckin' pain killers, private!" The man behind him yelled. Herald faintly felt a needle in his arm, follow by the pain lessening, his senses lowering... It felt like heaven to him.

Boots pounding, a slight jostling... Where was he? Was he in a war? Why didn't he get up and walk himself to help?

He was set down, and left alone for a moment before another man approached him, helmet missing, short brown hair covered in dirt and grime like everything else. His lips were in a smile, and he looked uninjured.

"How ya feel, Herald?" The man's voice resonated several times in Herald's mind before he responded.

"Fucking amazing, Rott..." He smiled, and grabbed up for Rott's hand. Rott took it and looked Herald in the eyes.

"You're going home, bud..." Herald didn't register it, and instead his hand fell back to his side, and he continued staring at Rott before he got up and left. Then it hit him.

He was going home. This hell was over. He would see his home again, his parents...

"Thank you, demo team..." Herald muttered before lapsing into unconsciousness.

_Same area, time, etc._

Norman could barely see. There were trails of blood in front of him, to his sides, dirt and grime everywhere, shrapnel sticking up everywhere, as well as stone debris.

His vision was blackened in the corners, swaying slightly, and he was fairly sure that he was going blind as well.

He began trying to crawl across the ground, his vision swaying, making it extremely difficult to maneuver across the ground. Then he realized that he couldn't even hear his own breathing. No men calling for help, no cries of pain...

He tried to yell himself, but he spat out blood when he tried, splattering the ground in front of him.

His vision was fading faster now, and a pool of blood was forming underneath him. He fell to his side, one had splayed out in the middle of his vision, the other grasping for his throat for his tags. They were gone.

As his vision faded, his arm turning black, his last thoughts entered his mind. His watch was ticking.

_Tick, tick, tick..._ It was at the 45 seconds hand.

_I'm going to die here... Alone, bleeding, dirty... And nobody will know. Nobody will care, nobody will bother identifying me without those damn tags. God... I hope you got what you wanted. I'm going to die here, and you don't care..._

_Tick, tick... _The hand was at the 55 second mark.

He took his last breath, and then went silent, blood still slowly leaking onto the ground next to him. Strangely, on his uniform, a part where he couldn't see, there were two faint words, probably made in pencil.

_I care._

_Same area. Half an hour later._

Crone dropped to his knees when he found Norman's body. There was a pool of blood next to his chest, his arm was splayed out in front of him, to where a watch was. The watch itself had stopped, probably out of power, exactly on the 12 point.

Norman's helmet was nowhere to be found, his uniform and face covered with dirt and grime. His eyes were open and staring at the watch, as if they expected it to suddenly start ticking again.

_This isn't right... Norman had problems, but nobody deserved to die like this. _Crone thought, clutching Norman's tags harder.

The tears came. He hadn't cried when White had died, he hadn't cried when he was trapped... He couldn't take it anymore.

"I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL TAKE ALL OF YOU FUCKING JAPS STRAIGHT TO HELL WITH ME! DO YOU HEAR ME, SATAN? HAVE SOME SPACE FOR THESE BASTARD JAPS AND THEIR DAMN BANZAI!"

He lost his voice and fell to his side, next to Norman's body. He expected it to suddenly start moving again, but it didn't, and never would again.

The thought struck him. He was alone now. Herald would probably be on his way to the beach to begin going home. Norman was dead. White was dead. He was the only original man of the squad left. He hated it. He was done.

His tears didn't stop, and he didn't try to stop them, as they ran down his face and onto the ground. He was fucking tired of this shit. Tired of the jungle, tired of the banzai, tired of the tears, the sorrow, the pain. He was tired of the war...

But he had a promise to complete, and he was going to follow through on it and kill enough Japs to fill all of hell's open spaces, and then some more.

He gathered himself together and took a last look at Norman. He crouched next to his body and placed one of the tags between the dead man's teeth, and clamped them shut. As he stood up, he noticed a small scribbling on Norman's uniform, and bent down to look at it.

It read: _I care._

__**A/N: I almost fucking CRIED when I went back and re-read the ending of this chapter, and it made me feel proud of myself, that I could invoke the emotions of myself, and I wrote it...**

**~DeltaG, Fic writer.**


	8. Tired of the Fight

**A/N: Once more, thanks to Imjusthere61944 for the reviews and insight. Any of you silent readers out there that enjoy this, you may want to check out the poll on my profile to determine if I write the Airborne story next. **

**I apologize that once again, this will be more of an emotional/psychological chapter rather than a combat one.**

_June 6, 1944_

_Normandy_

_Operation Overlord (D-Day)_

_1000/10:00 AM_

_Thud. Thud. Thud..._ Preston was tired. The beach had been enough, watching their men get ripped up by the MG42s, but this was hell. The marching was fine in training, but in the field? Just unreasonable pain.

The Airborne units would be here somewhere, scattered all across Normandy from their low airdrops and the breaking of the formations in the middle of the night. The company of men had already picked up several of the airborne men, most of them without sufficient ammunition or without a weapon at all.

Neal was chatting quietly with an Airborne man up near the front of the column, the Shermans roaring on the road next to them.

"Ever seen any action before now?" Neal asked the man.

"Nope... Two years of training just to get dropped into Normandy, lose damn near all my ammo, my Thompson, and probably several of my close friends as well." The man replied. In his hand was his Colt pistol, which was the only weapon that he had been able to scavenge the night before.

"Well, where the hell did your weapons and ammo go?" Neal asked, looking at the Colt questioningly.

"Well, you see, the Army had this brilliant idea of leg packs... You toss 'em out the plane first, and then you go. The idea was it could carry grenades, ammo, explosives... Hell, I managed to stuff my Tommy into it, but then it ripped off of my leg and I never saw it again." The paratrooper was grinning slightly now, remembering how lucky he was to survive the night.

"Now that is why I'm in the infantry. No dumb as hell last second ideas that end up screwing me over." Neal replied, slinging his M1 over his shoulder.

"Well, we do get that extra fifty dollars a month payment of hazardous duty." The paratrooper held out his wallet, which held visible bills inside, but Neal noticed they weren't fifties.

"That's the only thing the Airborne can hold above the infantry, just some extra money." Neal did a fake slap at the wallet, and then both men laughed.

Gimmons was riding on the back of a tank, speaking to a man who was on break, sitting on the top of it.

"So, how is it like driving this huge ass vehicle all over Europe?' Gimmons asked, lighting a cigarette and holding it up to his mouth, taking a quick puff from the small cancer giver.

"Fuckin' great. At least we aren't out trying to get shot like you." The man said, back, patting the top of the tank like a pet. A dull clank followed, and then Gimmons smiled. He knew the tanks were the best friend of the infantry, especially the Shermans.

"True, quite true, my friend." Gimmons replied, holding a cigarette up to the man, who took it and lit it.

"To the health of the armored and infantry, and the hope that we get to Germany before those Brits!" The man yelled, holding the cigarette out. Gimmosn did as well, and the pair burst out laughing.

"You're alright for a pussy tanker, you know that." Gimmons said, looking up at the driver.

"And you're alright for a brainless infantryman." The man replied back, another round of laughter overtaking the pair. They were just joking, and both knew it, but they could feel the amount of trust building between each other.

Williams couldn't comprehend the idea of this. The massive invasion he could understand, but now they were marching deeper into enemy territory, barely a sliver of it being secured. Hill was striding next to him, silent as he listened to the sounds of nature. All of them were the airborne and infantry men, and the sound of the tanks rumbling down the road ahead of them.

The hedgerows were the only reason they were even bothering going on the roads. The hedgerows were twenty or more feet high in some places, and nobody wanted to try to pick their way through them, especially Williams.

A low rustling sound startled Williams, Hill, and two other men who happened to be near them at the time.

"What th-" Williams didn't get to finish his sentence before the hedgerows exploded in a fit of leaves, thorns, and bullets. Williams fell, a bullet catching him in the stomach, just above his waist.

Then he remembered. There had been a sign a bit earlier on the road. What had is said...? Was it St. Mere-Egleise? Brecourt Manor? Either way, it was full of the enemy and he'd been hit.

"Medic!" He called, Hill and another man grabbing him under his arms and dragging him back towards the safety of the other men, who had in turn heard the fire, and hedgerows that had been ripped up all along the line, hitting a few men who happened to be in the way.

"What the hell are you doing? Throw some damn grenades for God's sake!" Another voice yelled, authority oozing from it. The man was obviously used to being in command, and it showed. Several grenades flew in the air over the hedges and blew up on the other side, but to no avail.

"Shermans! Get your asses in gear!" The same voice called. Williams' vision was blackening, and he felt dizzy. Through the pain he could see several Shermans' turrets turning towards the hedgerows, their .50 and .30 caliber guns already returning fire through them.

"GODDAMMIT I NEED A MEDIC!" Hill yelled, dropping Williams to the ground, and beginning to fire back through the hedges at the men behind it.

Williams' vision went back, and then visions from his past began flowing in, from the Italian campaign.

"_I hate boats..." He muttered, a swift reply following._

"_Well get the fuck over it, Williams." Preston replied, blowing smoke at Williams._

"Where the fuck is that medic!?" Another voice pierced Williams' mind. It was probably the other man, but then he heard another sound. A cry of pain.

"JESUS!" Another voice yelled, followed by an explosion. Was it the Shermans firing on the hedges or a grenade landing next to them all? Williams didn't know and it frightened him. He couldn't see at all for some reason, but Hill had gone silent, and Williams couldn't tell one voice from another.

"_Planes are more stable than this thing..." Williams muttered, holding the side of the boat._

"_Why don't you stop your fucking complaining and have a smoke with Preston?" Gimmons suggested, smiling at him._

"I NEED SOME DAMN MEDICS HERE!" A voice once more stopped Williams' memories from overtaking him. The voice sounded faintly familiar, but he had no way of identifying it without seeing.

"Williams!" The voice penetrated his mind again, and Williams tried to blink. He could see, barely. Above him was Gimmons, trying to shake him for some reason.

"What... the... fuck?" He managed to mutter, trying to reach up and stop Gimmons.

"You're alive? Thank G-" A bullet ripped into Gimmons' left arm, and he cried out in pain, his M1 falling off of his shoulder, the sling slipping from his arm.

Williams tried to scrabble over to the M1, but his vision faded again, and he felt the memories coming back. A mixture of voices washed over him, and the memories erupted all at once, in a random order.

"_...in the dark?" Williams asked._

_Gimmons ripped the knife from his foot and handed it to Preston, who looked at it._

"_...Gave up yet." Williams muttered, leaning down and sitting underneath a window in the building they occupied._

"_FUCK!" he yelled, slipping over the edge after the tank round had penetrated the wall, and blowing away part of the floor. He slipped, his hands scrabbling on the floor as he fell down, landing with a sickening crunch on the floor below._

"_Why are you here?" Williams asked Neal._

_"All of us are here to keep this war from our homes and friends. The heroics that are talked about are usually the ones that get people killed. What keeps me going are you all, you are my brothers, and my wife and child. Williams, you'd better learn to keep some compassion, to keep your sanity here, or you'll be gone faster than Newman..." _

"STOP!" Williams yelled, trying to wash the memories away by calling himself back to the present. He couldn't dwell on the past anymore, he had to survive Normandy, dammit!

His vision came back, and now he was being dragged again. Gimmons was still lying where he'd fallen, and another body was next to him. Gimmons was trying to crawl back towards them, but he was visibly hurting from the arm wound.

Gimmons was in severe pain. His arm was fucking burning, and he was fairly sure Hill's body was next to him. He saw Williams being pulled away, and was trying to crawl after them. He'd seen Williams' wound, and it was bleeding badly. He was unlikely to survive.

"Medic..." He managed to mumble feebly, reaching for another man who was passing by. The firing had stopped, but men were calling for medics all along the column, and many weren't being answered. The medics were short-handed, and with this many wounded, it was a wonder they were still working.

"Gimmons, get your ass up." Preston was standing above him, his hand reaching down to him. Gimmons raised his uninjured one and took it, being hauled to his feet by Preston.

"Walk yourself to the aid station." Preston ordered, patting the man on the back, and sending him towards where the medics were dragging and carrying men.

Preston bent down as Gimmons left and looked at the body next to him. The radio was all too familiar, and when he turned the body over, Hill's face was underneath, a hole in his chest right where his heart was.

Gimmons was soon at the aid station and the bullet was removed, the wound wrapped in cloth from his uniform. They were severely short on supplies, and were saving them for the majorly wounded.

Gimmons wandered around the aid station for a while after being treated, and stumbled upon Williams, who was pale and looked near death. His uniform was stained red in places, as well as some of the sheets he'd been placed on.

"Neal was right..." Williams muttered, clutching the wound.

"What do you mean?" Gimmons asked, taking a seat next to the man.

"I'll be gone like Newman soon... And nobody will care." Williams replied, closing his eyes.

"That's not true, and you know it!" Gimmons was surprised. The man had finally gotten some sense, but he was going to die right after getting it.

"Who cares, Gimmons? Preston won't, Hill is dead... Neal won't, and you... You probably won't either." Williams said back, his breath slightly slowing. He was shaking now, mainly in his hands.

"I care, Williams... You've been like a brother to me, and now... I wish I'd looked after you more." Gimmons, took out his knife. The knife had been engraved back in England, before Normandy, and it read something very special to him.

_Gimmons, fighter, shooter, killer. I care, even when my enemy doesn't._

"Take it, Williams." He said, holding out the knife to the dying man.

"No, I couldn't..." Williams replied, making an effort to shake his head.

"Read the engraving, then." Gimmons said, shoving the blade towards William's face.

Williams read it, and then he couldn't stop himself. He began crying. Gimmons really did care, and he was the only one. He was happy, but soon he would never see this man again, at least for a while.

Gimmons was smiling, and he tucked the blade into William's shirt pocket. Tears were readying at his eyes as well, nearly overtaking him.

"I salute you, Private Williams..." Gimmons suddenly said, raising his hand in a salute to the man, who smiled back and tried to salute back.

"Remember Williams... I care." Gimmons said a few moments later. The man promptly nodded, and then lay his head back, taking a few deep breaths.

Williams died, Gimmons saluting him once more.

"This war will take all of us, either physically or psychologically..." Gimmons muttered, standing and leaving Williams' body.

Neal was still with the Airborne trooper, who was now lying on the ground, clutching the wound he'd gotten in his chest.

"Damn..." The trooper muttered, trying to staunch the flow of the blood, that was rapidly staining his uniform and getting all over his hands.

"End of the line for me, infantryman..." The airborne man managed a smile, as Neal tried to attract the attention of medics running around and tending to men.

"Don't say that. Your first jump, and you're giving up?" Neal asked.

"Sometimes you can't stop it, man..." The trooper shook as Neal tried to keep him awake, and then his breathing stopped, and he lay still on the ground, the blood still staining his uniform.

**A/N: There you have it. Another emotional and psychological chapter that I managed to squeeze a bit of combat into. Silent readers, reviews would be appreciated, but if you don't want to, at least vote on my poll.**

**~DeltaG, Fic writer.**


	9. Promotions and Hallucinations

**A/N: I know it seems like I'm rushing these chapters, but the previous chapter was intended to be realized two days ago, but I was delayed due to schoolwork. More thanks to Imjusthere61944, constant reviewing, constructive criticism, and support. If you haven't seen his story, I strongly suggest reading it.**

**I don't know if I've done this before, but: DISCLAIMER: I do not own Call of Duty, any of its affiliates, Treyarch, Sledgehammer, Infinity Ward, Activision, etc.**

_February 1, 1944_

_Kwajalein Atoll, Marshall Islands, Roi-Namur_

_Marshall Islands Campaign_

_4th Marine Division_

_1430/2:30 PM_

They were gone. Herald had been injured for the final time, and now he was on his way back to the states. Norman was dead and gone... Crone was the last of the dying breed in his squad.

As he strode through the med tents set up near the explosion, word got around that he'd been promoted to lieutenant, and that he needed to report to the command barracks immediately. He soon found out the only reason they needed a lieutenant instead of a higher ranking officer was because the rest were either incapacitated or preoccupied with finding their men.

As he neared the command tent he saw Rott and Satchel speaking in low voices nearby. Satchel's wound wasn't bleeding, but he would still need a real bandage for it, as the makeshift one would eventually come loose.

He parted the entrance to the tent and saw two men inside. One was obviously a lesser known General that Crone had never heard of, and the other was a major.

"Ah, lieutenant. We were wondering if word had gotten around to you yet." The major greeted him, holding out his hands across the table between them. Crone took it and shook it for a couple of seconds before saluting. The two other men saluted back.

"Now, as you may know, that warhead wounded and killed many of our men, and we must now be alert about them. All bunkers shall be treated with extreme caution." The general spoke, authority springing from his voice. Crone was not impressed with this man. Didn't he know that the bunkers would already be taken with caution even without his damn order?

"Yes, sir. Now, what can I do?" Crone asked.

"I want you and Major King to go around and spread the word about the caution needed to be taken from the bunkers now." The general replied pointing to the tent's flaps. "Any questions?"

"Sir?" Crone dared ask.

"Yes, lieutenant?" The general was surprised. It was a straightforward assignment, and for God's sake, this man had been on board back in Makin, blowing up that airfield!

"No offense, sir, but I don't think our soldiers are imbeciles." Crone stated in a matter-of-fact way, taking his helmet from his head and placing it on the table, along with his knife.

"Excuse me, lieutenant?" The general was flustered. None of his officers dared speak to him in that way, especially the recently promoted ones.

"I said. I don't think our soldiers are imbeciles, _sir._" Crone put emphasis on the sir. Maybe the general only understood a sentence if it ended in sir, but Crone didn't care. He knew the soldiers weren't idiots, and the general should know too.

"Lieutenant, are you refusing my order?" The general asked, slamming a fist down on the table. The major had been watching this go on the entire time, and now began edging his way towards the exit, slowly.

"I'm not refusing your order, sir... I just don't believe that it is necessary or very relevant." Crone retorted, gaining confidence. He was going to stick up to this high-ranking officer for the G.I.s, the men who just followed orders, the men who died from those orders.

"This order is completely necessary, lieutenant, now gather yourself and move it before I am forced to court martial you." The general was trying to maintain his patience. He had honored this man by promoting him to a lieutenant, and invited him to meet him, true only because his other offers were unavailable, but damn it, this man should show some respect!

"Yes, _sir._" Crone said, with as much venom as he dared. He turned on his heel and strode out of the tent, his thoughts now on the general and how he had ordered him to do something that the men already had comprehended.

He ended up leaving King to the order himself, as he wasn't going to work for a man like that. As soon as he could, he would request a transfer out of this unit, even though that would mean leaving Rott and Satchel behind. It would probably get denied anyway, after the casualties taken, but he would deal with that when it came.

He paused at the entrance to a tent, and then pulled out a pack of smokes. He didn't usually smoke, but now was an exception. After lighting the cigarette, stood and puffed it for a while, men eying him as they went in and out of the tent.

Then he began to see things. He saw Norman leaning against a stack of ammunition boxes next to the tent to his left, a necklace with a cross tied to it hanging from his neck. The Norman he knew had long thrown it away. This wasn't right. Every time he turned to look at him, the man would disappear.

Then he was replaced by White, who was cleaning his knife on the ground to his right. No matter how long Crone tried to look away, the knife never got clean, and White just sat cleaning it, always disappearing when he tried to look at him.

"_How does it feel, Jack? God abandoned me, and now he'll abandon you as well. That cloth you took from my shirt? The one that reads I Care? It won't help you any more than that cigarette."_ Norman's voice penetrated his ear, and he left a cold presence on his shoulder, as if ice had just been place don his left shoulder.

"_You're the last of a nearly dead breed, lieutenant... White was the bloodthirsty, I was the doubtful... Now comes you, the last survivor, the one who sacrifices himself in the end. Who knows, maybe you'll die right before the war ends, and then it will all have been for NOTHING!"_ Norman's voice now sounded angry, and Crone felt a tug at his shoulder. He had to be imagining this. White was dead, and Norman was definitely dead. And then the man appeared in front of him.

He was just as he had appeared before he died, minus the bloodstained uniform, and the lack of a helmet. His watch was there as well, but it wasn't ticking... It was in the exact spot as when Crone had found him, right on the 12 mark.

"What... Are you?" Crone dared reach forward. His hand slid through the man's stomach, and he took on a ghostly look. He was nearly transparent, but Jack could still make out the details about the man. His ammunition, his Colt, his watch, his grenades.

"_Is it scary, Jack? Is is scary to know that you'll survive all of this just to end up dead in Japan? A nameless grave in the middle of a destroyed city, with the only markings as: Marine Lieutenant?" _Norman had a sneer on his face as he spoke. Before Crone could reply, he faded, and White replaced him, holding out the still bloody knife at him. The knife was in the same ghostly form as White, but the blood looked very real.

"_Crone, if you listen to him, you will NEVER get out of here alive. He's the one that caused me to die. His indecisiveness caused him to let me get bayoneted. You will be the one to go through the entire campaign alive. Herald... He's safe now. You aren't."_ White was the opposite of Norman, supporting him, telling him he would survive.

"Wait... What the hell? BOTH OF YOU ARE DEAD! WHY AM I SEEING YOU!?" Crone yelled, catching the attention of many men around him. He had suddenly yelled out for no reason. Of course, he was the only one who could see them, and now he would be made out to be insane. Mentally unstable. A psychologically fucked up marine.

"Lieutenant? You alright there, bud?" Rott was staring at him, in the middle of trying to clean his helmet.

"Yeah... I'm fine." He replied, looking down at the ground where White's ghostly form had been. There was a faint splatter of blood on the ground, directly under where the knife had been.

_February 25th , 1944_

_California, Los Angeles, Veteran's Hospital_

_Aftermath_

_Honorable Discharge_

_1200/12:00 PM_

Herald awoke, scars all over him, three purple hearts pinned to his chest, along with a note on the table next to his bed. His pain was gone, and there was a needle in his arm, fluids flowing through it.

He reached over for the note, which was folded so that it would fit onto the small table.

_Dear Pvt. George Herald, 4th Marine Division, Kwajalein Atoll,_

_February 2rd, 1944._

_George, been recuperating well? If you haven't, then get the fuck better, soldier, you deserve that discharge! Haha, you sure as hell got banged up back on Roi-Namur, but you weren't dead when I heard about you yesterday, so I suppose you're fine now. I have no clue when this will reach you, so it may seem a little dated when it actually gets to you, but I suppose you'll still be able to catch up with us like this. I'm a lieutenant now, and I'm hating every moment of it. These officers may get better pay, but they sure as hell need to get on the front lines for a bit, and experience what we did every day out there in the jungle._

_Well, I'll be signing off now,_

_2nd Lt. Jack Crone, 4th Marine Division, Kwajalein Atoll, Roi-Namur._

Herald smiled. The letter certainly was dated, but he was glad to hear from Crone, and that he hadn't been killed back in the jungle. He'd heard what had happened to Norman a couple of weeks back, and had never gotten word on Crone. He now realized that was because he had bee asking about a Sergeant Jack Crone, not a lieutenant.

He folded the letter and put it back on the table, where he noticed there was another folded piece of paper and a pen. This one was a clean sheet, no marks or writing on it. Well, he might as well pass some time by writing him back.

_Dear Lt. Jack Crone, 4th Marine Division, Kwajalein Atoll, Roi-Namur,_

_February 25th, 1944_

He got that far before sleep overtook him, and he fell asleep there, the pen and paper in hand.

_February 1st, 1944_

_Kwajalein Atoll, Marshall Islands, Roi-Namur_

_Marshall Islands Campaign_

_4th Marine Division_

_1521/3:21 PM_

Crone was sweating. He felt as if he had a fever that wouldn't go down, and he was feeling his forehead every few seconds, knowing that even though he hoped it would go down, that it wouldn't.

"Jesus... What the...?" He collapsed before finishing the sentence, and many voices swarmed in his ears as he felt himself being dragged.

"The Lieutenant's down! GET A MEDIC OVER HERE!" A man yelled, and he felt himself put down on a soft cloth, and water go to his lips. He took the jug in his own hands and poured it across him into his lips and across his face, cooling him down slightly.

"Looks like he just overheated, privates. I'll keep him here a bit and make sure he doesn't get worse." A new voice penetrated Crone's barely awake mind, and then he saw them.

White was smoking a cigarette in the chair next to him, and Norman was leaning over him, shoving his ghostly cross necklace into his face.

"_Looks like you won't last long after all, Jack. You just nearly died from the damn sun. There is no possible way in hell that you will make it to Japan. Looks like the breed will die sooner than I thought." _Norman was smiling in a devilish way, his cross nearly touching Crone's nose.

"_Norman. Why don't you shut your fucking pessimist mouth for 5 minutes and let Jack think. I can tell now that every time you look at him, you'll say some bullshit about him dying in the end for nothing. Maybe you want him to die a death like yours, alone, cold, bleeding." _White retorted, not even looking over at him.

"_You know it's true, White. Jack's getting older, and older is weaker to the marines. His time is limited, much more limited than the other two." _Norman was now squinting at Crone, as if sizing up his strength.

"Go away, Norman... I don't want to hear your crap right now, and I certainly don't want to listen to you, a Christian man, go on about how I won't survive." Jack mumbled at the ghostly figure, who disappeared with a chuckle. White followed, but he smiled at Jack first, blowing ghostly smoke in his direction.

"God, why can't I have a normal life?" Crone mumbled after they disappeared, feeling his pockets for the cloth he'd cut from Norman's uniform.

He read the two words several times, until they were burned into his mind. For some reason the words made him feel safe, as if he were back in Tennessee with his mother and father... And his twin brother and sister, who didn't understand why he had to go away to the islands...

"_Nobody cares, Jack." _Norman's voice entered his mind.

"_I care."_ White's voice came back.

From that day on, Crone swore in his head that those two words would be his motto. He would never let his men down like Norman had with his psychological problems. He wouldn't leave his parents, his siblings... His brothers-in-arms.

**A/N: That was a touching moment... At least in my opinion. Silent readers, I insist that you review, and that any of you who haven't go on my profile and vote on the poll. I will now state the plot I have figured out for it.**

**The Airborne troop selected will be the 101st Airborne, 506th PIR, 2nd battalion, Company D. The groups are real, and began on D-Day in 1944, followed through to Carentan, through Operation market Garden, all the way to Hitler's Eagle's Nest, where they disbanded after the ending of the war.**

**They serve as light and dark, good and evil. Norman and White, though they appeared to be the opposite of what Crone sees, they are trying to guide him now.**

**~DeltaG**


	10. What Do You Want, Jack?

**A/N: More thanks to Imjusthere61944, and any other reviewers. Note to Imjusthere61944: the aim I came up with was the angels vs devil on the shoulder idea, and I think it worked out quite well.**

**Disclaimer: See first chapter, or chapter before.**

_June 22nd, 1944_

_Cherbourg, Normandy_

_Operation Overlord (D-Day)_

_9th Infantry Division, mixed with the 4th and 79th._

_1300/1:00 PM_

Pounding of boots, the Shermans rolling... That was two weeks before, and now the Shermans had achieved their objective, helping the infantry clear their way through the hedgerows across Omaha and Utah beaches. Now they were just outside their target for the week: Cherbourg.

Neal was a nervous wreck as they hurried up the nearly silent street. It should be a heavily resisted area, but for some reason there was no fire on them as they entered. Something was wrong her,e and he knew Gimmons and Preston could sense it.

Charles Victor, a hearty young man from Florida, was oblivious. After Omaha Beach had been secured weeks before. The recruit was too shiny in Neal's opinion, and soon he would figure out how hard the combat in the war was.

The other replacement was Bill Chalk, a man who had experienced combat briefly in Italy, been injured, got back in the fight, got injured again, and was now back for his third time, probably even more nervous than Neal.

"It's too quiet, Sarge..." Neal muttered, nudging Preston with the butt of his M1. Preston was thinking along the same lines, and as they entered the town, held up a hand to signal a stop. There was another squad behind them, and they stopped as well.

"I know..." He replied in a low voice, and then raised it so the others could hear, "A'ight, LISTEN UP! It's too quiet out here, and I want my squad to take the left, Wall's squad take the left. We clear these damn buildings floor by floor until we find these bastard!" With that, Preston raised his Thompson and headed off to the left, his squad trailing him.

"Okay, here's what we do, exactly," Preston stopped next to the door of a building that looked sealed. "I'm going to sit here in case any of them decide to escape through the front. Chalk, you'll break the window, and Gimmons will toss in a grenade. Neal, Victor, you two will wait in the small alley next to the building, to see if they escape through that door." He finished giving the orders, and everyone took up their positions.

"BREACH AND CLEAR!" Preston yelled. The glass shattered, and the sound of a pin being pulled entered his ears, and then, a few seconds later, the grenade exploding, shrapnel hitting anything it could within the range it had.

"_Grenade!" Neal yelled, the pin from his grenade clattering to the floor after he ripped it away with his teeth._ That memory... It was from too long ago...

Preston kicked the door in, and inside they found several ruined chairs, an overturned table, and a bleeding German behind it, shrapnel in the center of his throat, in his left cheek, and just below his left ribs.

"Poor bastard." Chalk muttered, striding past the man as he struggled desperately for air. It appeared his windpipe and throat had been pierced, and now he couldn't obtain any air, let alone put up a fight.

They heard whispering voices upstairs, followed by the slamming of a door.

Another door was kicked open, and Neal and Victor walked in, each staring up at the stairs. Footsteps could be heard from the stairs, and it sounded as if they were preparing to be in a last stand defensive position. None of them were going to take the chance of jumping from the upstairs window to the street below, so this was their only option.

"Gimmons and Victor, head outside, chuck a couple grenades through the window, then fire a few shots." Preston ordered, beginning to slowly walk up the staircase, Chalk and Neal following slowly behind him.

As they reached the door where the voices seemed to come from, they were replaced by panicked screams, and then explosions. Silence followed, and then the anguished cries of pain as the survivors examined their wounds.

Neal kicked the door in this time, and the scene before them was amazing, even though they knew the town had been a long occupant of the Nazis. From the walls hung several German Eagle signs, as well as swastikas, and even a picture of a starving child, a propaganda message written in German.

"Sick..." Chalk muttered, looking at the starving child's picture, and kicking the nearest wounded German. He cried out in pain, and then rolled over, exposing shrapnel in his lower abdomen and right side. Chalk put a round in his head with his M1, and then turned to the rest of the men.

There were originally six, based by the bodies, and only one was now alive, blood streaming from his chest and shoulders. It looked as if he'd taken a direct him from the grenades, and was now barely alive, struggling to breathe from the pain.

Before any of the men could put him out of his misery, a crack of a Kar98k ripped through the air, followed by a cry of "MEDIC!" From Gimmons. They heard a shuffling sound, followed by a door slamming, and then silence.

Chalk proceeded to shoot the injured German and then the three hurried downstairs, where they found Gimmons try to keep a wounded Victor conscious. It appeared that the replacement had taken a bullet in the upper chest, near one of his lungs, and was now bleeding profusely, his uniform staining a deep red right before their eyes.

"Damn! Sarge, the bleeding won't stop!" Gimmons was pressing on the wound with a makeshift tourniquet he'd cut from Victor's pants leg, the blood staining it and the bleeding man's uniform in front of their eyes.

"He's a goner, Gimmons..." Preston muttered, crouching down next to the man who had slipped into unconsciousness. At least he wouldn't die a very painful death, he'd just feel the pain from when he was hit, and then nothing more.

_Neal reached out for Newman, but then the tank shot again, showering him with rubble._

Neal shook his head. He knew he shouldn't be remembering those horrid times back in Sicily, but he couldn't stop himself. This scene was both alike and very different at the same time.

The group was trapped with the sniper stationed outside, so they'd have to wait it out for a while, and see how things went. Neal smiled and looked over at Preston and Gimmons, who were solemn.

"This reminds me of Sicily..." Neal remarked, causing the other two to look over at him, and then make their minds wander back to Sicily, where they'd thought they'd face the most danger. They'd turned out to be wrong, and the biggest danger they'd seen so far in the war were those damn hedgerows.

_February 1st, 1944_

_Kwajalein Atoll, Marshall Islands, Roi-Namur_

_Marshall Islands Campaign_

_4th Marine Division_

_1601/4:01 PM_

Up and walking again, Crone couldn't get the two visions of the dead men out of his mind, and felt as if they were following him wherever he went, always watching and waiting for him to screw up, so that Norman could criticize him, and then White reassure him.

He was walking around blindly with no intention on where he was intending to be, and then he heard a voice interrupt his train of thought.

"Sir, Pvt. Jeff Harrows reporting, sir." He turned on his heel, and there was a young freckled man, no older than eighteen, who was his replacement. The man didn't even have dirt on his face yet, but he sure would when they were done with this godforsaken island.

"Lt. Jack Crone, good to meet you, Private." Jack stuck his hand out, but the replacement didn't take it, and just saluted, leaving Jack's hand hanging.

"Well, I suppose we'll be moving out soon again, Harrows. You might as well stow your gear and get ready, because we're nearly done here." Crone told the man, who nodded and headed out in the direction Crone had been walking in, his stride still that of what the military had taught him, the way they were supposed to march.

"_He'll be gone in an instant, just like White." _Norman was suddenly leaning on a stack of boxes to Crone's right, that evil grin still on his face from last time, the cross necklace swaying with the slight breeze, even though it shouldn't have been.

'Wow, my imagination has detail.' Crone thought, as Norman turned into White, just as he had before.

"_Jack... You can protect these men, but you can't do it alone. You have to learn to trust people, even the recruits who are just out of the fucking school, even the ones who don't know the sound of an American rifle from a Japanese rifle." _White said to him, pointing at Harrows just before he turned a corner at a tent, and then was out of sight.

"Both of you... Go away, I don't need this right now." Jack mumbled, and Norman's figure appeared in front of him, White's to his right.

"_What'd ya say, Jack? Something about not needing us?" _Norman was sneering, something the living Norman never did. Jack was slowly going insane, and he knew it, these men were just accelerating the process.

Crone said nothing, and took his helmet from his head, his deep brown hair slowly moving with the slight breeze. He studied the outside of the helmet, where the American flag was painted, along with a gold star. It meant nearly nothing to Jack anymore. The military had sent these men out into the Pacific, to Italy, to Europe, and expected them to fight for their country day after day after day after seeing their comrades die the day before or moments before. They were expected to be super soldiers, and nobody could do that, even the famed Generals that were praised so often. Even they had their limits, just like everyone else.

"I said I don't need your shit, Norman." Jack growled, baring his teeth on the right side, his left side closed.

"_You don't need me? My advice? My constant support? Oh, how painful. You know how you'll die, and that you'll never see your home country again!" _Norman was just mocking him now, and White looked like he was about to stab the ghostly figure of the former sergeant.

"I don't want to die, Earl..." Jack muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"_Oh, you don't want to die? Don't you think I didn't want to die? I wanted to believe that God had sent me here for a reason other than dying of heat in a jungle, other than killing crafty Japs in their trees, other than watching my men die in front of me every day." _

"You died because you couldn't leave your damn problems back in your mind and just try to help out..." Jack's voice was now low and solemn, as if he was speaking to a dying man.

"_Yes, but the fact remains, nobody gives a care about what you want, but humor me. What do you want other than to not die, Jack?" _Norman wasn't hostile in that statement and question, rather a curious tone took over his voice.

"I want to... I want to go back home and see my siblings again... My twin brother and sister... I want to hug them and tell them everything will be fine, that nothing will ever hurt them..." Jack was fighting back tears now, remembering his siblings. They had always looked up to him, and he was sure that they were hoping that he would be home for Christmas this year, and not still be in the jungle, so far away from them.

"_Oh, that's it? Your family? Your family expects you to die, Jack, all families expect their sons to die in war, it's just the way it is... But what else?"_

"I want to eat my mom's delicious chicken again... I want to wake up early in the morning with my siblings and watch them open their gifts on Christmas, and watch their eyes light up when they get exactly what they want... I..." He trailed off, a tear making its way down his right cheek.

"_What? What else, Jack? Don't make yourself cry, now that you're a big strong officer." _Norman was mocking him again, but Crone didn't care. He was back with his siblings in 1939, watching them open their presents.

"I want to hug my parents, and tell them to look after those two... I just want to see them again, and if you keep bothering me, none of it will come true, I will never see them again, I will never see another Christmas dinner, and I will never hug them again!" He was suddenly angry, and nearly tossed his helmet at the ghostly figure.

"For the last time, get the fuck away from me..." He muttered, and Norman chuckled, disappearing. White followed, a ghostly tear on his nearly transparent cheek.

**A/N: Well, that was a touching moment wasn't it? I'm sorry there hasn't been much combat in the last few chapters, but the aim of this story IS to focus on the psychological and emotional effects of the war. The psychological wounds of Crone are getting worse, and his hallucinations are taking on the devil vs angel on the shoulder type thing.**

**~DeltaG**


End file.
